A Study in Romances
by pink cows CAN fly
Summary: Advice from a bartender. Hearts cannot be broken if they cannot be touched. And your's, according to watson, is untouchable. It has been so for years. Until now. So you hide it and conceal it. For now, you pretend you don't have it. (Must have left it on the mantelpiece.)


There is a difference, holmes, between solitude and isolation. And you are living on the fine line in between. You seem distressed lately. Your eyes trail when you talk of her, lost in the moment. Are you thinking of her? Well, it was a guess. I had no idea of her importance. But then again, she did not know you then. She does not know you now.

She has never met Sherlock Holmes.

But she has met Peter Livingston. No doubt, one of your many characters that you disguise as during a case. Was she a suspect? A victim? A client? None? She was sitting nest to you in the park? On a case?

Now then, Was peter kind? Was he a gentleman? Did he ask after her? Smart? Witty? Sensitive?Was peter charming? Was she intelligent? Was he smitten? I thought so.

She is a woman, you say, she will be forgotten, after a few drinks and at the bottom of a glass. You never drink. You never come here, yet she has lead you here. Why, You ask?

Well, she might be only a woman, but she is also a woman who was managed the incredible feat of capturing your frequently short-lived attention. And for so long, it seems that she has been another one to ensnared your mind, heart and soul, aside from the regulars that occupy the space such as the good doctor and Mrs. Hudson.

This itself is rare. Think about it.

Did you run to her, before she left and exited at the turn? What was stopping you? The fact that she had a distinct golden band around her ring finger? But then again, she seems unhappy with the state of her marriage, you say. Perhaps you had a chance after all. Or is it the matter that you have always stressed attraction as a weakness of the mind? A poison to intellectuals? Would you consume that poison? To risk life for affection? A poison is nothing but a drug, is it not? And you have already , on more than one occasion, sneaked more than 7% up your veins. Do you fear you will become obsessed? You are an addict at heart, holmes. This, unfortunately, cannot be changed.

All hearts break and love is but a criminal's excuse to avoid punishment and at the same time, his motivation to commit evils.

If believing so, holmes. Then you are a fool. A brilliant clever fool who cowers beneath the facade of pride and superiority over other men. But regardless of your brilliance, you'll become restless and you'll pace in the living room of 221B, threading on the carpets, letting the friction from your soles wear it thin.

 _She drives you mad._

You fear the power she has over you, the grasp of her long slim fingers over your chest, over your clockwork heart. She can turn in on and off, in and out, up and down. Da-dum,da-dum. And you will comply. Yes, most probably. She can reach the depths of your mind, the corners of your thoughts.

You fear her rejection. She is young, you are old. She is beautiful, you thinks so, you know so. The symetry of her features prove attractive to you. You fear her beauty, you fear her fragility and so, you avoid her. Hearts cannot be broken if they cannot be touched. And your's, according to watson, is untouchable. It has been so for years. Until now. So you hide it and conceal it. For now, you pretend you don't have it. (Must have left it on the mantelpiece.)

But to segregate the heart from the body, the heart from the mind, thought from feeling, is it not the most mechanical way to document human emotion? Does this not ring true to dr watson's attempts at describing you as a cold, heartless machine? A thinking gadget that only calculates and doesn't compute. Though such a good friend he is that he drafts you as such in the strand, stating that a man of your calibre must surely express passion and alacrity through methods understandable only to you and a brain of your equal.

You try again. Seeing her as your equal. You cannot, as so few are. You envision her, you dream of her. She haunts you, but you seem content. This is the only time you see her after all. Her brown locks and full lips. You have memorised her. From the way she blushes when you compliment her to the movement of her hips as she strolls down the lane.

You are a stranger to need; a lost bee extracting pollen from an exotic variation of a common flower, a book collector amongst the vellichore of a secluded shelf full of first editions. She becomes an unwelcome guest in your mind when ennui comes. She is unwelcomed, yet she walks in and out freely, as if invited and you have never sent her away, at least, not yet. She seems imaginary, but she is not unattainable.

Make haste, holmes!

Strike before she wilts, before her profile becomes but a blur in a sea of faces stored in the haze of your memory. Forget her ,you say, it will be easier. But that is is lie. It won't be. It will be a gruelling process, like when Watson moved out, or when Mrs Hudson died. I remember you being here.

Alas, it is too late. Years will be gone. you will have aged. But, you will see her again, London is crowded, the chances are until then she will float in eternity, a stimuli for the synapses. Then, one day, she will be gone, from you and your memory.

Nothing will be left all but the fragrant, seductive coil of her perfume and painful, unfed regret.

Would you like another round?


End file.
